Hope for 3: Marriage, Cancer and Pregnancy

When I first got the text from my friend Emily, I felt an immediate physical sensation of fear mixed with shock—the feeling of an instantaneous cold shower for all the blood in my veins.

The text asked for prayers for a friend of hers who had recently gotten married, recently become pregnant and recently been diagnosed with Hodgkin’s lymphoma. This woman—Mary—had inadvertently become the living embodiment of three of my greatest passions in life. Since getting married in 2014, my commitment to my wife has been the defining relationship in my life and something that I take an immense interest in nurturing. Since being diagnosed with Hodgkins and fighting it into remission throughout 2015, supporting cancer patients and sharing my experience as a survivor has become another personal mission. When my daughter was born in August 2016, becoming a father was the final life change to further refine my identity, goals and life purpose.

In a single text asking for my prayers—and without ever having met them or even yet knowing their names—I felt an instant kinship to Mary and her husband Tom and their growing baby Isla Rose. Since the day I learned of their story, they have been on my mind repeatedly and on my lips in prayer unceasingly.

I often talk about what a whirlwind the last three years of my life have been, with a marriage, a new house, a new job, a cancer fight, and a baby. As a firm believer in the axiom that God will never give you more than you can handle, I know this must be a pretty special family. If God, in His infinite wisdom, saw fit to throw them so many curve balls in rapid succession, they must be excellent hitters with a superb coaching staff.

That coaching staff is where the real miracle happens—when you realize that God didn’t give you more than you could handle precisely because He also gave you a strong network of people who will support you through these challenges. My post-cancer goal has been to join the coaching staff of anyone I encounter who is going through something similar.

If you are reading this, chances are that you were on my coaching staff, and I can never thank you enough. But the work isn’t done now that I’m in remission. I’m asking you to please spring back into action and help the Doherty family. There’s no denying they have a tough road ahead of them. Whether financially or spiritually or in another way you might think of, please join me in lifting up this family as they embark on an undeniably difficult journey. Pray for the health of their baby and a safe delivery. Pray that the cancer has not continued to spread within Mary. Pray that the treatment will be a success. Pray that Tom, with the difficult job of simultaneous caretaker to a newborn and a cancer patient, will get the support he needs and have the strength to persevere with a positive attitude. Just generally keep them in your prayers and consider making a donation to their GoFundMe account.

Reading their story makes me feel incredibly blessed for the way mine worked out and for the oodles of love and support I had along the way. Please help me to spread the word about their situation so that they can share my happy ending and recognize the enormous blessings that are ultimately born of suffering.

One Year of Remissioning

It was one year ago today that I got the news I had been waiting six months to hear. My cancer was in remission. While I won’t be considered by the medical community to be “cured” until August 2020, hearing that there was “no evidence of disease” still meant to me that I had conquered the most grueling personal challenge I had ever faced. It meant an end to weekly doctor’s appointments and blood tests. It meant a return to work and exercise and ramping back up to full strength. It meant getting my eyebrows back and at least a little more hair on my head. It meant that I was meant to face down cancer and live, when so many others were not so blessed.

It’s only one year later, but the world looks so much different to me today. The experience of fighting cancer changed me irrevocably and tremendously, but I didn’t expect my life to change all over again in my first year of remission.

Remission.

Now I’m no linguistic scholar, but I don’t think the parts of that word sound like they have anything to do with overcoming an illness. Nevertheless, it’s a rather apt word for how I’ve spent much of the past year.

I’ve been re-missioning.

In fact, I’m on a completely new and wonderful mission now–a life change that was almost as unexpected as my initial cancer diagnosis, but a billion times more joyful.

IMG_6791 (1) copy

As I type this post, my daughter Madeline is lying next to me in her rock ‘n play sleeper, baby-grunting and beginning to stir as she prepares to wake up for her eighth meal of the day. She turned three weeks old yesterday, and she’s the most perfect creation I’ve ever seen.

I can’t help but consider her to be a miracle–and I know that all children are miracles–but Maddie counts doubly so. Before I embarked on my treatment journey, three different doctors told me that chemotherapy had rendered greater men than me sterile, so I should probably make plans for my future fertility (and defy Catholic teaching on the subject). Theresa and I forged ahead in faith–trusting God’s plan for our family, even if that meant that Lumpy would make us a permanent party of two. When I received my remission news last year, the oncologist told us that even if we could get pregnant, we most likely wouldn’t be able to do so for a year and shouldn’t really even try until then. I guess that would be right now.

But just as God surprised us by making 2015 the Year of the Lump, he surprised us again by making 2016 the Year of the Bump. With that positive pregnancy test last December, we were instantly re-missioned.

I won’t pretend that Lumpy didn’t make a few cameo appearances in the past year. He came back like clockwork every three months when it was time for another scan and randomly haunted my psyche with worst-case scenarios: What if the cancer came back? What if I got sick after the baby came? What if the baby was sick? Is that another lump in my neck?

Fortunately none of these dramas ever played out in reality. My latest scan last week appears to be my cleanest yet. I’ve found a new oncologist who actually seems to care a lot about my health and who understands the importance of bedside manner when you’re dealing with cancer. Theresa gave birth to Maddie with no complications (read the epic tale!) and Maddie is as healthy as can be.

This entire pregnancy and year of remission has been filled with “What did I do to deserve this?” moments of gratitude–spawned from an experience that normally poses that question in the other direction. I know that I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t been there, so I can’t help but look back at the marvelous timing of all these staggering life events with wonder and gratitude.

Perhaps it’s fitting that this is my 100th post on this blog–a blog that I started simply to chronicle the experience of my 30s and all the big moments I presumed would be heading my way in that decade. If I could send these 100 posts to my 29-year-old self, I wonder what he would make of it. Would he be afraid? Proud? Shocked? Perhaps he’d be most surprised that I actually kept it up.

As I turn 34 in three months, it would be tempting to hope that the latter half of my 30s is more predictable than the former. But these years have taught me the value of change, the importance of faith and the rewards of following a path that sometimes isn’t clear until you’re looking back at where you came from–and suddenly you’re happier than you’ve ever been before.

IMG_4837 copy

 

Is it Time to Find a New Oncologist?

As I type this tonight–about two months from my one-year No Evidence of Disease remission anniversary–I find the thought almost comical: Why would I switch oncologists now? After all, I’ve already endured 12 rounds of chemo on my current doctor’s watch, put up with his idiosyncratic bedside manner, his maddening lack of clarity and availability, some mistakes in treatment and his Groundhog Day-like inability to remember the details of my case between visits.

After reading that last sentence, perhaps you’re wondering why I stuck with him in the first place. Well, the answer is largely because the hospital was conveniently located minutes from my house and my oncologist was supposed to be administering chemotherapy according to the marching orders of a highly respected lymphoma doctor at the University of Chicago who provided my second opinion and course of treatment. That doctor assured me that chemotherapy is chemotherapy no matter where you get it, and it seemed a lot smarter to get it five minutes from my house than to brave rush hour traffic to-and-from Hyde Park once a week for chemo sessions or checkups.

But I’m assuming that while the ABVD chemotherapy poisons are the same everywhere, the level of care from your oncologist can differ greatly from practice to practice. And in that department, my oncologist could surely use some…practice.

So what was the straw that broke the camel’s back? It happened earlier today. My wife and I had recently been chatting about how I am due for another PET or CT scan, as my oncologist had said he wanted me to get one every three months for the first year. For each of these scans, we have had to call his office to see if he still wanted me to get one and had to connect with him in order to get the scan ordered. (Is this normal? Or is the office supposed to call you to schedule your scans? I have no frame of reference for this beyond my dentist and my eye doctor, who always call or send a postcard when I’m due for some maintenance. Fellow cancer patients and caregivers: what has been your experience?)

Completing these scans is always a stressful experience for me–both because I hate getting stuck with needles and also because I always have a fear in the back of my mind that the scan won’t be clear and I’ll need more chemo or radiation or some other form of cancer-fighting torture. At the appointments to get the results of my three-month and six-month scans, it was clear that my oncologist had not even looked at the results before entering the room, which left my wife and I quivering in fear as he read them over in our presence. After the first scan, there was some ambiguity in my throat that required me to go back to the ENT who originally diagnosed my cancer. But my doc hadn’t seen this before I was in the room, so we got to watch him process it and ask me questions about my general health before he told us what was going on. It was terrible.

After my six-month scan, he reacted incredibly positively to the completely clear scan as he read it for the first time in front of us…because he thought this was my first scan after remission. When I complained about having to drink a disgusting contrast liquid before the scan, he told me that they didn’t need an abdominal scan because my lymphoma was in my neck, so I wouldn’t have to do that for any future scans. That’s nice, but we still got charged for the unnecessary abdominal scan that was clearly ordered because he wasn’t paying enough attention and didn’t bother to examine the details of my case.

But the back-breaking straw came today, when my wife once again called his office to find out if he still wanted me to get a nine-month scan and to get it scheduled. The office left a voicemail saying that we were supposed to have come back for a checkup after two months (which was never suggested to us on our last visit and had not previously been the protocol) and that my doc wanted me to get a scan of my chest, abdomen and pelvis.

Even casual readers of my cancer adventure will remember that my cancer presented as an enlarged lymph node in my neck. SO WHY IS HE NOW REQUESTING A SCAN OF EVERY LOCATION EXCEPT THE PLACE WHERE THE CANCER WAS?

I’m sorry. I’ll calm down. And turn off caps lock.

A quick scan of his waiting room tells me that he sees a lot of patients and that some of his patients probably have lymphoma. But I also know that I am probably one of the only ones who is under 35 and therefore perhaps a little more memorable than a lot of the older cancer patients he sees. But even if he couldn’t exactly remember the details of my case, shouldn’t he look at my chart a bit more carefully before ordering incredibly expensive scans that are meant to ensure that the cancer hasn’t returned?

So this is why I kind of want a new oncologist now. But I’m not sure that’s even an option for me. Do oncologists take on patients who are in remission and just come in for tuneup scans?

In the 17 months since Lumpy first entered my life, I have tried to be a resource for anyone who is dealing with similar health issues. I’ve tried to meticulously catalog my experiences in the hopes that it could bring comfort or knowledge or solidarity to others who find themselves fighting their own Lumpy.

But tonight I find myself somewhat frustrated and in need of advice. If you are reading this and have any experience with professional medicine or cancer treatment, I would love your feedback. Leave a comment or send me a message (roundingthirty at gmail dot com), and I would be very grateful for your insights.

Despite my frustration, I remain in good health–although perhaps gaining a bit too much pregnancy weight in solidarity with my pregnant wife–and richly blessed beyond measure. My oncologist and his staff did take good care of me throughout my treatment, but this latest development just feels like a logical breaking point, if it’s possible to switch to another doctor. Regardless of any of this, I feel so sure that all of the experiences that came from my cancer battle were oddly dressed blessings from God that fit perfectly into His plan and have prepared me for new and exciting challenges to come. Thank you for reading this and for all of your support!

News Worth Sharing

Being busy with a pregnancy and finishing up another quarter of teaching and taking a vacation and concentrating most of my efforts on Dad Has A Blog, I have been a bit remiss in updating this one.

Incidentally, if you aren’t already subscribed to or otherwise following that blog, you should probably click here and fill out the subscription form to rectify that!

If you haven’t been following that blog or any of the other places where I shared the announcement, you might have missed the news that we found out our baby is going to be a girl! You can read more of my thoughts on that in this post, but also watch the video below to see how we revealed the gender to my family and some of Theresa’s family who were in town this past weekend.

Theresa and I also just returned from our babymoon to Arizona (full post on the subject coming soon to a dad blog near you!), where we had a delightful time taking in a Cubs spring training game, seeing the Grand Canyon, eating at a non-Illinois Portillo’s, hiking some scenic trails in Sedona, and just generally devouring the 75-degree weather and the ability to walk around in a t-shirt and eat meals outside. It was a fantastic way to relax and enjoy each other’s company, while also being able to talk a lot about the new person who will be joining our lives in less than five months. We even spent some time by the pool reading our respective father-and-mother-to-be books.

While in Arizona, I also had a weird health-related issue, as a lymph node in my neck swelled up right before we left for our trip. It was the same lymph node that always used to swell up whenever I got sick with a cold in my pre-Lumpy days, so I didn’t think much of it. A few days into our vacation however, a giant sore formed on my right cheek–which looked a lot like a really bad acne pimple without any kind of head–and the right side of my face swelled up to an alarming degree. I didn’t have a fever or any other symptoms, and I was just two weeks away from a completely clean CT scan, so I did my best to presume it was just something wacky and unrelated to Lumpy. The swelling started to go down after a few days and the sore scabbed over, so it just looked like a really ugly flesh wound. Very attractive.

I went to see my oncologist when we returned to Chicago on Friday, and he recommended I get yet another CT scan and put me on antibiotics. Last night I got the scan (only two attempts needed to insert the IV this time…they’re getting better!) and had a restless night of contemplating my mortality while I tried to sleep. I have to believe that some of this anxiety is caused by the presence of the baby resting comfortably in utero next to me. If I’m being honest, the specter of Lumpy is still much closer in the rearview mirror than I would like it to be, given this wonderful new development. I need to trust in God’s plan for my life and know that He won’t give me anything I can’t handle. I think I was just a little discouraged by having such a random and strange issue develop on my neck/face so soon after a supposedly clear scan. What gives?

Today I went to my oncologist to find out if anything was giving, and I am happy to report that nothing is. Yesterday’s scan was as clear as the previous scan, so the doc said this must have just been some freak infection that will continue to heal itself with the antibiotics, and said that the big reaction is probably just a sign that my immune system is still a bit compromised from the chemo–even though I’ve been done with chemo since last July.

I can’t express the relief I felt from this lack of a diagnosis, and I hope it will be enough to finally put my mind at ease for a while. I have two other people’s health to concentrate on for the next…well, forever…and I want to start fully focusing my energy on that and stop looking over my shoulder for cancer shadows. It would also be nice if random freak health-related occurrences didn’t pop up for a while…

All in all, I feel so blessed to have the clean bill of health that I do, and to be having this miracle baby with a wife I love with my whole heart. To quote the wise sage Keith Urban, “There ain’t no doubt that God’s been good to me.”

Did you follow my Dad blog yet?

IMG_3367

Six Months in the Clear

IMG_4243I’m not sure it’s possible for someone who has battled cancer to ever visit their oncologist without a little trepidation. Since the end of my chemotherapy regiment last July, I’ve been on a once-every-three-months-for-the-first-year schedule of follow-up scans.

Both times that this scan has approached, I’ve been filled with a sense of impending dread about what the scan might find. Last time, I was given relatively good news and needed only to follow up with my ENT to confirm that the “activity” picked up by the PET scan was just a simple cold. It turned out to be a simple cold that lasted about four weeks, but nevertheless, it wasn’t cancer and remission continued!

I thought the pre-scan jitters might be lessened the second time around, but they really were not. First of all, my insurance company (which has been fantastic about covering the majority of my medical bills…truly an unsung hero in all of this) rejected my claim for a PET scan. I don’t want to get too political here, but this was an honest-to-goodness #thanksobama moment, as my oncologist explained that insurance companies are not approving PET scans for sick people who need them because of the effects of Obamacare. PET scans are expensive and apparently many healthy people eligible for Obamacare would rather pay the penalty to not be insured than pay monthly for insurance itself. This leaves insurance companies with a higher ratio of sick-to-healthy people using their coverage than before, making them less money and causing them to deny the expensive PET procedure in many cases to make up the difference in their bottom line. Editor’s note: The point of this post is to give an update on my cancer remission, not engage in a debate on healthcare. I’m simply reporting what was told to me by my oncologist. Let’s move on.

So I had to get a CT scan instead of a PET scan this time. “Oh, great!” I thought. “Now I won’t have to avoid sugar for 24 hours or get injected with radioactive glucose and sit in the dark for an hour before the scan!”

Screen Shot 2016-03-03 at 5.35.46 PMThat is a true statement, but I didn’t count on the different brand of fun that a CT scan would offer me. When I made the appointment, I was told that I had to come pick up a special contrast drink that would light up my innards in place of radioactive glucose. I would drink one the night before the scan and one an hour before the scan. Upon receiving the two 450 milliliter bottles of “berry smoothie,” I knew I was in for a real treat.

Choking down the first dose was a little like drinking Elmer’s glue with a slight berry flavor and some weird chunks in it. The flavor wasn’t as problematic for me as the disgusting texture of the “smoothie”–and the fact that there was just so dang much of it. Theresa, being the sleep-craving second trimester pregnant lady that she is, was long asleep by the time I was holding my nose, forcing it down my throat and hoping my gag reflex wouldn’t bring it back up. I went to sleep for about six hours and then woke up to repeat the exercise before we headed to the hospital for the scan.

I met a tech that I had not previously worked with in my various radiology department travails, and something about his demeanor told me that this was not going to be a quick and easy appointment.

He asked if I drank the stuff and I expressed my opinion on the experience and my fervent hope that it meant I would avoid needing an IV for the scan. I had forgotten the first rule of the hospital–if you’re here as a patient, we’re sticking you with a needle. If you’re name is Matt, you’re probably going to get stuck multiple times.

That policy was in full effect for my CT scan. The contrast I had ingested was apparently only for my abdomen and colon. An iodine IV was necessary to scan all the important areas where, you know, I actually once had cancer. The tech set about the process of finding a vein. As always, I told him about my vasovagal ways and that most people have better luck striking a vein in my right arm. He ignored this advice and gave punny meaning to the phrase “trying in vain” to find one there. He then moved on to my left arm, where he found a vein but failed to properly pierce it. He gave me a test injection, which I could taste in my mouth, and asked me if my arm hurt. It did, so he let out an expletive and informed me that the needle wasn’t all the way in my vein. He tried one more test injection that simply yielded more pain and another expletive (and one in my head, too). He moved on to my hand, poking it three different times and failing each time.

“For a young guy, you sure have terrible veins,” he sighed. For an old guy, you’re sure terrible at your job, I thought. He called over a colleague who “taught me everything I know” (Is that reassuring?) and he was able to get the IV into my right arm successfully and without any pain whatsoever. Four pricks for a simple IV is definitely a new record for me though. I’m sure my certificate is in the mail.

The CT scan proceeded normally from there. It’s very similar to a PET scan, except that the warm iodine is injected into the vein at certain points, which gives a warming sensation all over your body and leaves you with the sensation that you are on the verge of or already have wet your pants.

After the scan, life went back to normal, but my appointment to get the results wasn’t for another week, which gives the former cancer patient’s brain plenty of time to ruminate on what might be invisibly growing in their neck or on their spine or in their chest. I start examining my neck in the mirror more frequently and looking for lumps anywhere else. I console myself with the fact that I don’t seem to have any other lymphoma-like side effects, that there’s definitely not a lump and that I’ve gained weight recently. Theresa is particularly good at helping me chase away these horribly negative thoughts that tend to haunt me whenever I’m going to sleep.

With her pregnancy, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t thinking about how terribly inconvenient it would be to have to once again go through what we just finished up six months ago–especially when a pregnant woman with her own nauseous issues and compromised immune system would be forced to become my primary caretaker. The whole scenario frustrates me and becomes all too realistic in my brain sometimes. I trust that God has a plan for me and I am intensely aware of all the good that came from my cancer fight…I would just also love to find out that God hates reruns and we won’t have to do it again.

We had our doctor’s appointment today, so I was working from home. When Theresa picked me up, we were both suddenly very nervous about what we might be about to find out. Everything went incredibly smoothly when we got to the hospital though: The staff was happy to see us and the nurse took my blood without incident and told me she had seen me in the newspaper. We miraculously didn’t even have to wait that long to see the doctor. When we did, he didn’t beat around the bush: My scan was incredibly clear and didn’t even show any scar tissue anymore! Everything is perfect! Praise God! I honestly found myself fighting back tears of happiness and a huge burden was immediately lifted.

I’ve officially been in remission for six months, we’re finding out our baby’s gender in five days, and we’re heading to Arizona in 9 days. God continues to hold us in the palm of His hand, no matter how easy it is for me to doubt that sometimes. Life is good!

giphy